


Off to the Races

by alitbitmoody



Category: Hotel Artemis (2018)
Genre: Acapulco is married to a contract killer from another country, Alternative Universe - Crime, Battle Couple, Bisexual Male Character, Disabled Character, Gay Male Character, Injury, M/M, Married Couple, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Recovery, Rimming, Versailles is played by Burn Gorman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:45:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alitbitmoody/pseuds/alitbitmoody
Summary: Versailles is acutely aware and respectful of the Artemis’ rules. His husband… less so.





	Off to the Races

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to _[Trouble Is Your Middle Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15159926/chapters/35157017)_. The title comes from the Lana Del Rey song of the same name.

_**Los Angeles, 2021.**_  
  
  
“Your friend out there is making quite the racket, Nice.” 

The nurse’s tone was more tired than unkind, so Versailles’ correction was more gentle than it would have otherwise been.

“It's not my friend — he’s my husband.”

To her credit, the nurse's dermal scanner only paused for half a second above his damaged skin before swiftly moving on. Third-degree burns superseded even internalized homophobia.

“Well," she smiled. "having been married once myself, I would definitely say there’s world of difference between those two things.”

“You’ll have to excuse him. I seem to have given him quite the fright.” An understatement, if the memory of his husband shouting at traffic as he gunned the car from the primary location to the Artemis was genuine and not the product of the initial course of sedatives. “And when things slip away from his control, he can get a bit tetchy.”

“Something you have in common.” she said, informed by five years of acquaintance.

“Did he refuse rule #1?”

The nurse shook her head “No, he gave up his weapons easily enough. The ‘no visitors’ rule seems to be the one that really has his knickers in a serious twist.”

“I see. May I write him a quick note?”

“You shouldn’t move your hands right now. Particularly your left one. The grafts are still setting and you need to let the nanites do their work.”

“May I _dictate_ him a quick note?” 

He blinked slowly as a quiet set over the room -- focused on the sound of footsteps moving away and then toward his cot. When he looked up next, the nurse had returned with a pen and a legal pad.

“Remember the rules about names.”

He kept it simple, non-explicit (which the nurse seemed to appreciate):

_‘Darling, stop antagonizing the nice people putting me back together. I’ll be home soon.’_

_“_ I’ll have Everest slip it to him under the door,” she smiled, folding the square of white lined paper and slipping it into her pocket. “By the way, congratulations on your nuptials. ‘Never took you for they marrying type.”

Versailles allowed a warm smile to slip out as the torrent of painkillers swept him into a brief sleep.

Neither had he _._

—

By the fourth night, the payment was in his account, and he was in his own bed to both his and Manfred's relief.

His husband’s mouth lingered where hip met thigh — the shiniest area, still a rubbed raw pink, where the skin grafts had been needed most.

“Thank god it didn’t burn your junk off.” His words were broken off rather than clipped, jagged where he aimed to be sharp, like a dropped plate. Underneath it, Versailles could hear the raw scrape of three days of shouting and tears, gentling the sharp reply he would ordinarily have at the ready.

“I’m glad to hear that you have your priorities in order.”

“Damn right. I’d probably go nuts if you couldn’t fuck me. With your cock _or_ with you hands," a whisper of touch on both of his wrists, not quite pinning them to the mattress. "I’m making you a pair of gloves for the next job and you will fucking wear them, dexterity or no.”

“Of course, sweetheart. I’m sorry I frightened you,” he whispered. He was used to the diazepam putting space between the atoms that made up his person, but the tingling in his fingers as he stroked his husband’s damp hair was new. He wondered if it was an interaction with the mild opiates he was on for his recovery and, if so, when the latter would kick in. The lingering pain in his hip kept him balanced on a knife's edge that heightened the softness of his husband's intimate touches, making him feel dizzy even while lying down.  
  
He closed his eyes as Manfred's tongue traced a path down further between his legs, firm as he licked across his perineum, sending a jolt up through his belly, cock pulsing painfully. Lips closing, scruff chafing against Versailles‘ inner thighs in a way that sent warmth creeping up his chest and made him forget the pain briefly...  
  
Versailles fisted his fingers in short brown hair, pulling lightly. His husband glanced up. 

“Is that a no or a yes?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he bit out, gratified when Manfred's head descended once more.

—

Versailles had been cautioned to avoid showering for the first three days. Manfred sponge-bathed him and toweled him dry with surprising efficiency, then tucked into his side. He hadn't shaved since the accident and the soft bristles of stubble prickled against his arm and shoulder.

“You’re very tactile since I returned,” Versailles observed.

“I don’t like sleeping without you.”

“We’ve been in different cities before, in different countries.” Missions and clandestine deals that required different locations and separate beds, often because Manfred himself despised traveling further than a domestic flight across the country would take him. 

“I don’t like it then either. At least then we have video chat -- I get to see your face, hear your voice. Those assholes wouldn’t even let me in your room.”

“The dark rooms have rules for a reason, my love. Someday, you might be grateful that they do.”

He had known he was in trouble the day they walked into the Los Angeles county court with one of Versailles’ five forged birth certificates and Manfred’s real one. A weapons designer, however enterprising, had considerably less risk showing their face whenever they wanted, could afford to think that no one was watching their movements at all times. Versailles didn’t have that luxury. He waited until three days into their honeymoon to whisper his real name against his new husband’s ear.

 _“...Were your parents fucking hippies?_ **_Are_ ** _there French hippies?”_ _  
_

_“You’ve never heard of Mai ‘68 I take it?”_

Ostentatious. He had kept a firm check on being ostentatious, even with a code name and aesthetic presentation designed to jar and bristle. His husband, at his worst, couldn’t seem to avoid it.

He turned his wrist over, lacing their fingers together. “My mistake, anyhow. I’ll make sure you have a membership after this. Just in case.”

“We are _not_ going back there," he replied, angry finality in his tone. 

“Well, hopefully not for quite some time. I _am_ going to need access to someone with a prescription pad eventually.” 

“If it comes to that, we could always try north of the border?”

“Are you volunteering to enter Canada? Who are you and what have you done with my husband _?_ ”

“It’s not all bad.” He shrugged, forced nonchalance that made Versailles want to laugh, even as his chest twinged at the sweetness of it all. “Montreal‘s cool.“

“And frozen solid for 90 percent of the year.”

“They speak French,” Manfred offered. As though that explanation alone should be enough. “you’d get your meds and I’d get to hear you order coffee in fancy cafes.”

Versailles stared down at the shorter man cuddled against his shoulder, sparking green eyes making something stir in his chest.

“Are you saying that you’re enamored of my birth tongue?”

“I’m enamored of you in general,” he smirked, curling into him further. “Tongue in particular.”

“Get up here, then.”

Manfred’s eyes widened, a flicker of scandal in bottle green irises.

“You’re still hurt.”

“That didn’t stop you from tending to me last night. Up.”

“I just cleaned you off!”

“Then try not to make a mess," he whispered, guiding Manfred to kneel up on the bed with a hand on his elbow, then the knee closest to him until his husband was straddling his chest. "Plant your knees, straight back... Good boy. Look at the wall. Don’t look at me until I tell you to.”

Manfred finished quickly and quietly (for him, which meant there was a strangled groan and the rap of knuckles against the plaster wall behind the bed).

“Is this a fancy way of saying ‘no’ to Montreal?” he asked afterward, face still turned toward the wall, catching his breath.  
  
Versailles smiled lazily, luxuriating in the warmth that surrounded him on all sides.  
  
“Technically, Vancouver is closer. And I can speak French to you anywhere.”  
  
Manfred's laughter was bright, slightly tinged with the hysteria of the past week.  
  
"True. I can’t grow and transport aconite or digitalis just anywhere. Much as I love my firearms, I think you’re going to need something with a little stealth and distance next time.”

Versailles ran his pointed fingernails down the inside of Manfred’s thigh, watching the resulting scratches go from white to pink beneath the crisp hair, the slight tremor in the shorter man's belly and hips.

"Stealth and distance it is.“


End file.
